Delirium
by FrankandJoe3
Summary: A bad turn on a mission has Dick rushed into the hospital where the morphine slowly starts to kick in.


**All credit to gothams-bird-boy for the head canon they submitted regarding Dick and his lack of comfort when it comes to sleeping on his back due to the way his parents landed when they died. I thought it was a beautiful idea to play around with.**

* * *

Of course he had been hesitant to slip back into the leotard—Jack had expected that much—he just hadn't expected to get Dick back up onto the bars as fast as he did.

"It's not too soon?" the ashen haired man had asked before the show, his hand tender on the ebony's shoulder when their eyes met.

"It's just one show, Jack. Maybe it'll help me cope," the fourteen year old had shrugged off the hand with a grin.

Just like that, it was show time, five minutes until the sole survivor of the Flying Graysons accident back in 2006 was to go on and prove his legacy hadn't been lost in his absent years. The green costume was a little snug, the yellow of the G stretched out across his chest to the point bits of the green showed through. His palms were chalked up and his hair was slicked back from his eyes to ensure that tonight's performance would go on without a hitch.

Of course it was. There wasn't a doubt on that part. Between what he'd learnt as a Grayson and as the Boy Wonder, he'd had this show planned out for years now in the back of his mind. He knew where every flip would be, every slip, every cry and pump of his fist. He'd know when to bow and when to go again. Catching his partner's forearms and feigning missing them for the sake of the crowd's enjoyment was tied in too. He had it all planned; he was ready.

He had himself convinced of that as he climbed his way up the ladder on the tower and all of the rest of the way up to the platform itself. The robe was only half-heartedly tied in the front when he hopped up onto his toes and unfastened the bar from its hook, running his fingers along the length. Since when was it made of a broken kind of wood? All these splinters were never there before—were they?

Maybe. It had been a while ago. He shook it off and chided himself for worrying, bringing his grin up boldly as the spotlight enveloped him like a direct ray from heaven. It was as if Mary and John were smiling down at him.

"I'm going to make you guys proud," the ebony whispered to the top of the circus tent, convinced his parents were watching him.

Dick waited until Jack had finished the booming introduction before giving a wave and jumping. Without the bar in hand.

He didn't scream. It was a graceful fall, his arms extended and a small slid gently over his lips because he saw what the crowd couldn't see. Beside him on either side as he fell, their hands in his, were his parents smiling lovingly at them, still in their leotards.

"Hey, Dick," his mother murmured lovingly, her free hand reaching over and brushing his hair back softly.

"About time you came for a visit," his father chuckled and patted right over his heart.

He felt its last beat under his father's palm when he shattered against the dirt floor, limbs and blood splaying about like a great piece of artwork. Death didn't come quite for him yet though, even after he climbed out of his body and stared down at it with an empty stare.

"It's funny," the ebony laughed softly, rubbing at the back of his neck before his hands were reclaimed by his parents who both seemed curious as to why he was laughing, "That's what you two looked like after you fell… you guys landed on your back… that's why… for a second… I hoped you guys were just unconscious. Silly me."

With closure marking the hole in his chest, Dick squeezed his parents' hands and together they all ascended up to the top of the tent and into the real sunlight—the real spotlight.

* * *

Dick sat up with a start, everything coming to his consciousness and making him gasp in both pain and surprise. He was in a moving hospital bed, but not a gurney, in a blue hospital gown instead of his leotard. There was an IV in his arm pumping a fiery hot liquid into his blood, a numbing fluid of course, possibly a sedative, and there wasn't a drop of blood on him. His leg was wrapped tight on the other hand.

It took a matter of ten seconds for his brain to patch him in on the details. A mission had gone badly and he had splintered his tibia in three places. He was hurt from a gig as Robin, not dead from a gig as a Flying Grayson. That was a dream. His parents were still dead and he was not. Alright, that cleared things up quite a bit.

"Wha- sir, we need you to lie back down," a nurse touched a hand to his shoulder and tried to force him back onto his back.

The ebony let out a small laugh—or was it a snort?—and shook his head firmly. She wanted him to lie down and die like his parents did, he was sure of it. He'd like to see them try while he still had that bit of fight in him.

"That's not going to happen," he shook his head again with an ironic grin, wrapping his fingers around the IV cord and easing the needle from his skin.

As it broke back from his skin, he admitted to tensing a bit in pain, but he was beyond caring about that right now.

"If you'll excuse me," Dick managed a polite bow, offering a charming smile to all those crowded around his bed before trying to throw his legs over the side.

Six pairs of hands grabbed him and tried to shove him back down, earning a frustrated arch of an acrobat's back which was never a good thing in considering the teen had a powerful kick.

"Please, we have to fix what we can. Don't make this harder than it has to be," a higher ranking woman groaned with some irritation in her voice, definitely making her the one who'd be leading the surgery on his leg.

Dick glanced her over once, satisfied that she seemed professional and very good at her work, but still not interested in the help.

"My parents were murdered when I was a kid, my current guardian's a basic statue in the parenting department, I get a book of homework every night and my extra-curricular activities are intense enough to splinter bones. How much harder _could _I make it?"

With his cocky smirk, his features seemed to sarcastically beg, 'Please tell me, I always loved a challenge' before he rolled his eyes and shrugged the smile.

"I've dealt with worse than this on my off days. We're done here. Bruce!" he put a hand to the guard rail on the bed and turned, looking over his shoulder for his guardian, "_Bruce!_"

The hands were a bit more firm now, tugging on his arms and attempting to jam the IV back in with a stubborn sort of resilience. The fourteen year old easily broke from their holds.

"Bruce! Take me home!" Dick hollered a bit more urgently now, batting away the IV needle and frowning impatiently before turning to the nurses and the doctor, "Don't you have some sick kids to comfort? Come on, I don't even feel it."

"You will when the morphine wears off," a nurse urgently tugged on his wrist, trying to get him to still it. "The surgery won't take long—!"

The ebony shot her a glare and easily hopped the guard rail, landing on his good leg and hobbling down the hall, keeping a grab on the wall to keep from collapsing. It was as if the movement had helped the sedatives course through him with the way he started losing feeling in every ounce of him. A feeling of static almost ran from his cheeks to his hips, beginning to frustrate him to the point he hit at his legs. Maybe not his best idea, but he didn't want to lie on his back if he had the option.

That was how they died, the position their blood-soaked corpses had been lifted in from the dirt ground and set onto the gurneys and the same exact way they were lying in their caskets up until they were lowered into the ground. It could've just been the morphine increasing his discomfort in regards to the position—actually, it probably was—, but he still wasn't going to do it.

The sedatives were strong though, easily crumpling him to the hospital's linoleum after only a few steps with a pained groan and up into the doctor's arms. He tried to thrash and squirm out of the hold, but with the IV jammed back into his arm, resistance was impossible and he was on his back.

It was almost peaceful, for just a moment, until he closed his eyes. The wail of the siren. The nauseas surge that had him unable to move. The panicked screams from the surrounding crowd. The undeniable crack that marked the shattering of his parents' limbs. The swimming of his mind as it attempted to sit. The lurch of his stomach. The ache that ran through every inch of him.

In his delirium, he managed to get his eyes open a crack and looked through his eyelashes up at the doctors, the smallest of smiles fitting over his lips.

Had he jumped? Why were they ushering him so fast? He was dead, wasn't he? Just like his parents. Where were they now? Weren't they going to come and lead him away to join them? Late as always.

The smallest of a laugh parted his lips, "Doesn't it figure…"

His last words fell on deaf ears and the Flying Grayson ascended, if only in his dreams, up to the circus tent that memory would always serve him. Each flip was more graceful than the last, and there wasn't ever a fall to worry about. No one fell in his mind. They were all safe, and it was utterly peaceful.

* * *

**-F.J. III**


End file.
